


Face Me West

by Angelicasdean



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Arthur Whump, Arthur can't catch a break, Hurt Arthur Morgan, Hurt No Comfort, Injury, POV Arthur Morgan, POV John Marston, Sad Ending, Sick Arthur, Sorry Not Sorry, concerned john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-02
Updated: 2019-04-02
Packaged: 2019-11-28 12:25:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18208286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angelicasdean/pseuds/Angelicasdean
Summary: Arthur doesn't want to die alone.





	Face Me West

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Arwriter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arwriter/gifts).



> Imagine that Arthur gets diagnosed in chapter 3 instead of 6.
> 
> Also this is for Arwriter since their stories inspire me so much.

Arthur doesn't admit it, but he's getting weaker. He gets winded easily, always feels drowsy and coughs half his lung out if he so much as holds his breath a second too long. But he doesn't let it affect him, his work. He still takes jobs that make him ache for days, doesn't break under the continuous gunfights. Works under Sheriff Gray and does favors to people. He doesn't tell anyone about his condition, coughing out where no one can see him.

Hosea and John had found a job, sounded simple enough, just the three of them out to rob some homestead that’s rumored to have gold stashed inside and has some drunken squatters in it, that’s as much as he gets before they’re riding out to Cumberland Forest.

He’s fine with the day’s travel, ecstatic to be away from the Grays and Braithwaites. Hosea and John bicker jokingly with each other, almost reminds Arthur of the early days when John had been a loudmouthed kid, still is. He smiles as they ride in the sun, his clothes feeling overly warm on his body but he doesn’t complain, wiping the sweat off his forehead and pulling his hat lower on his face.

“You heard of what happened with Javier in Saint-Denis?” John asks, and so starts a supposedly funny story, one that neither Hosea nor Arthur get to hear through John’s uncontrollable wheezing. They can’t help but laugh along, John almost falling off as he gets out broken sentences.

“I-I can’t-” John snickers, wiping at his eyes, “I… you have to hear it from Javier, it-I haven’t laughed so hard in a long time,”

“Must be some comedic gold,” Arthur says with a smile, John reaching between them to shove at his shoulder, “You think we should hunt while we’re at it?” he asks, eyes following the Deer that runs around the fields in front of them.

“Maybe,” Hosea hums, “Later, we don’t want half rotten meat,”

“Think you’re too old to go through some food poisoning?” Arthur jabs playfully and Hosea huffs, squinting against the sun and turning to Arthur.

“I don’t want to end up shitting my pants because you’re in a hunting mood,” he drawls and Arthur snorts while shaking his head, “We should start seeing somewhere to stay the night,”

They ride for a while more, finally finding a secluded space between some trees. Arthur excuses himself to clear the cough that had tickled the back of his throat. He helped John set up their tents, collected some wood for the fire and caught a rabbit for dinner.

John and Hosea were huddled around the campfire, John smoking silently as Hosea strokes the fire. They smile at him as he puts down the rabbit, Hosea quick to skin and prepare it for them.

 

 

 

The next day, they continue up northwest, making small conversations and exchanging plans on how they could approach this. Before long, they reach a conclusion that John is to be helping Arthur loot the house, Hosea keeping a watch and take down any disturbance silently.

Once at their destination, they leave their horses between the trees, Hosea wishes them luck as John and Arthur split and head into the homestead. It seems eerily silent as they make their way into the buildings. John heads deeper into the first floor, motioning for Arthur to take the top. Arthur nods, pulling up his bandana and coughs quietly into his elbow. He makes sure not to step on the old looking stair steps, not risking any creaking. Once upstairs, he checks the rooms, finding one with three huddled shapes sleeping on the dusty floor. He opens the nightstand’s drawers, finding a few silver and gold pocket watches, some bill clips and a pair of emerald earrings. He counts it a success after checking the dresser and finding a jewelry bag and a coin purse.

He moves silently to the next room, which had a man and woman sleeping on a weathered bed, he checks the chest tucked against the foot of the bed, finding whiskey and tonics along with a large bill stack. The nightstand had been empty, dresser only holding another pair of Silver Pocket watches and a golden necklace.

He makes his way into the final room, pausing when the figure sleeping on the floor shifted, but continues sleeping.

He’d hit the jackpot, finding a golden bar tucked in a beaten chest under the bed, a few bill stacks and a platinum pocket watch. He smiles through his bandana, checking the nightstand and dresser and not finding anything worth taking. He leaves the room, pausing again when he heard muttering from a room. Quick to react, he retracted himself to a shadowy corner in the hallway as the door creaks and the man sleeping steps out. Arthur holds his breath, watching the man descend downstairs, he waits till the footsteps fade and follows, hoping John had heard the creaking and been smart enough to hide.

No such luck.

With a strangled yell, Arthur made his way quickly to where John is wrestling the man, one hand muffling his angry yells as the men upstairs wake. Arthur swears, giving the man under John a kick to knock him out and pushing John to his feet. “We gotta get out,” Arthur says, footsteps thundering down the stairs behind them as they make a hasty escape through the back-door.

The footsteps follow them, shouts for them to stop and threats of getting shot sound loud enough that Hosea is already whistling for his horse by the time they’re halfway to where he’s waiting. Arthur and John follow suit, whistling for Buck and Old Boy respectively, and crouching once the first bullet rings behind him.

John swears as Old Boy runs out of the trees, snorting as John mounts and heads to where Hosea had run off. Arthur whistles for Buck again, yelping as he falls to the ground, leg stinging badly, he shakes off the injury, desperate to make an escape as he whistles again and swears when Buck is nowhere to be seen. He runs into the trees, the homestead squatters hot on his heels. He stumbles once or twice when he puts too much pressure on his injured leg, but continues on, trees sprinting through his vision as his lungs scream in protest.

He can’t help but cough, forcing himself to slow down as he struggles for air. The men chasing him jump at the chance, one man tackling him to the ground, punching him across the cheek as Arthur splutters, trying to push or kick him away. He writhes under the weight, chest again burning as he coughs harshly, shoving the man away with the last of his strength and ripping away his bandana as he leans to the side and spits out the blood that had traveled all the way from his lungs.

The man grabs him by the collar, shaking him as he screams demands. The other one makes a grab for his satchel, which he shields protectively. He punches the man holding him, pushing himself to his feet quickly and a bit disoriented as he draws his gun. He wheezes for a moment, blinking against his blurring vision and aiming at the man standing.

The two freeze, not wanting to get shot as Arthur takes a step back, “We don’t have to kill anyone,” he says, voice hoarse, moving his gun from man to man as he looks between them, “Just let me go, no one has to get shot,”

“You got our stuff, Mister,” One of them says and Arthur aims at him, watching him take a step back, “You ain’t got the right to take our stuff,”

“Do I look like the kind of man who cares about that?” Arthur snaps back, gun switching to the second man as his hand hovers over his waist. Arthur starts to feel nervous, he doesn’t want to shoo these men, but they might push him to do so. John and Hosea are off somewhere, his horse is nowhere to be seen if he shoots, the other men will be on him, then he’ll either kill some more or get killed. Both sound terrible.

“You hurt our friend,”

“I’m sorry, then,” Arthur grits out, “I ain’t got a choice, he was going to get you men killed if he’d screamed,”

“Well, we’re still living,” the other man points out and Arthur blinks again, “but you won’t be, friend, if you don’t put that gun down.”

“You keep telling yourself that,” Arthur shoots back, glancing behind him in paranoia, they sound like confident men. Too confident seeing as they’re supposedly unarmed and have a gun pointed towards them.

“You’re outnumbered, and sick,” the man notes and Arthur scowls, “three against one, ain’t gone end well for you,” he adds and Arthur can feel his heart thrum uncomfortably against his rib cage. Three, the third hidden somewhere. Maybe it’s a bluff, but Arthur has an inkling it isn’t, their shared smirk is enough indication and he doesn’t know how he hadn’t caught it before, but their eyes shift behind him as they speak. He’s well and truly fucked.

Three men, he can take them down if they’re in front of him, has enough experience to know how to shoot all three within a second. Hosea and Dutch had called it a special talent, he didn’t like to compliment himself that much. Hosea… if he does die, poor bastard will kick himself about it till he ends up underground, him and that idiot Marston too. Bunch of self-blamingg bastards, he doesn’t really know how he’ll comfort them from beyond the grave.

He doesn’t waver, gun held high and aiming at the men. If there’s anything Dutch had taught them, it’s that you never die a coward, you stand your ground and fight, even if it’s suicidal. Like now, for example.

When the silence stretch, the man sighs and drops his head, Arthur hears the gunshot before he feels the pain. He stumbles forwards with the force of the bullet, the blood already pooling from his chest and staining his shirt. He coughs, shakes his head as he sways for a moment, decides, what the hell, these men killed me and shoots blindly. He falls to his knees, one hand coming up to touch where the exit wound from the bullet is and hissing as he tries to take in a breath. The other man had fled, his friend now lying motionless in front of Arthur.

He hums, blinking and letting himself fall to his side, gun slipping out of his grasp. He wheezes, squeezing his eyes shut and biting down a cough, knowing it’ll only make things worse.

In the distance, he can hear the snorts of horses, can feel the beat of their feet on the ground underneath him. He hopes it isn’t one of the homesteaders, hopes he’d at least die peacefully, enough that he’s dying alone, in a useless gunfight, can’t even call it a gunfight.

He blinks, watches feet come in his vision and feels a pair of hands on his shoulder. He wheezes again, groaning when his lung felt like it had spasmed.

He feels like he’d been dunked underwater, hearing fuzzy with his own heartbeat, chest burning and skin feeling cold. He blinks again, watching John’s concerned face swim, distorting as Arthur struggles to focus. “Arthur, Arthur, _say something_ , god damn it,” he snaps, one hand holding Arthur by the cheek.

“John,” Arthur slurs, blinking rapidly again, wheezing a breath and turning his head to cough. John holds him tight, lets him tilt, spitting his own blood with a gasp and a wheeze, “you need t’get out of here,” he warns, John shaking his head as he slides an arm under Arthur’s own.

“Hosea’ll fix you up,” John says instead, “Just need you to hang on, alright?” he adds, helping Arthur to his feet.

“Might get y’self shot too,” Arthur mutters stubbornly and John scoffs, “Jack ‘nd Abigail need you…”

“Well, The gang and I need you too, so just… save your breath, you-you need all the energy you can get,” John argues back, hoisting Arthur higher on his shoulder when Arthur’s knees start wobbling underneath him.

“I-I don’t think there’s coming back from this, John,” Arthur wheezes, bending forward as he coughs, vision blacking for a moment as his body short circuits. He spits and wheezes, feeling his spit coat his lips, wiping it away and blinking wildly as he notices that it’s stained deep red.

“You’re a stubborn bastard, you’ll make it, you always do,” John replies stubbornly and Arthur shakes his head, “please, Arthur, not-not now,” he pleads and Arthur lets him drag him a few more steps, they reach the road, Hosea waiting anxiously beside Silver Dollar and Buck. Arthur eyes the horse, not missing the scratches covering its legs and sides. Something must’ve attacked him, made him run away. Arthur can feel a part of him relieved at the horse’s presence, the little annoyed tick that he had stowed for the horse not coming when he’d wanted disappearing.

Hosea rushes towards them, grabbing Arthur’s free arm and helping John move him closer to the horses. The set him down, leans against Buck’s feet as the horse snorts at him, blowing a hot blast of air into his hair. Arthur reaches an arm, pets his face, running his thumb across the edges of his nose before dropping his hand heavily and coughing again, chest searing.

Hosea kneels beside him, places a hand on his cheek with eyes full of concern. He says something, Arthur doesn’t hear it, blinking rapidly as his vision spots. John kneels on his other side, both men sharing the same worried expression as Arthur looks at them.

“Arthur, can you hear me?” Hosea asks, looking like he’d repeated the sentence several times, breathing a sigh of relief as Arthur nods slowly, “I need you to stay with me, okay? You’re losing a lot blood and we need to stop it,”

“Don’t… don’t waste time on that,” Arthur grumbles, waving a hand.

“Now, don’t be a selfless dumbass, Arthur,” Hosea says, reaching to press a hand against Arthur’s bleeding chest, “We just need to get the bleeding under control then we’ll get you to Valentine and fix you up good and proper,”

“No,” Arthur shakes his head, blinking against their shocked expressions, “ain’t the first thing killing me, I...Tuberculosis, you save me from this, I just die from that,” he explains, wheezing a cough as his chest tightens.

“Arthur-”

“I’m tired, Hosea,” he admits, “I-I don’t wanna die, but I ain’t-” he coughs again, wet and horrible as blood pools on his tongue, he spits it out, “I ain’t got a choice,”

“We can find something, Arthur,” Hosea argues back, “you-you-”

“Don’t make this harder,” Arthur begs tiredly, eyes ready to close, head heavy and limbs cold, “Just, just don’t let me die alone, and-and don’t you blame yourself neither, y’hear?” Arthur leans his head against Buck’s leg.

“Arthur,” John says sadly, “We...we’re here,” he assures, looking at Arthur sadly as he takes a hold of his hand.

“Thank you, John,” Arthur smiles, despite the pain in his chest, he can feel a sliver of fondness for him rising, “you’re...you’re my brother,”

“I know, Arthur,” John agrees, “that it-it ain’t ending,” he assures and Arthur nods.

He can feel Hosea take his other hand, squeezing tight as Arthur wheezes harder, blinking again as he looks at the sky, “It’s okay, Arthur,” he whispers, voice not concealing the sadness the words are carrying.

“I-” he coughs again, body jerking forward instinctively and the hold on his hands tighten, “Thank you, both of you,” he says, “you-you’re my family, You and Dutch,” Arthur says, looking at Hosea, “you-you saved me, gave me a family… thank you,”

“No need to thank us, Arthur,” Hosea coaxes, one hand coming to rest on Arthur’s head, “you-you’re my family too, gave me the son I’ve always wanted,” he sighs, holding tighter on Arthur’s hand. Arthur forces himself to stay awake a bit longer, just a few more minutes and he can rest.

“Bury me, Hosea,”

“Of course, Arthur,” Hosea assures, face holding firm, “We’ll bury you somewhere nice,”

“Face me west, too, so I-” he coughs briefly, chest tightening impossibly, “so-so I can al-always remember the fine time we’ve shared,”

“Okay, Arthur,” John assures, “We’ll make sure of it,”

“Th-Thank you,” he croaks and John shakes his head, Arthur spots a tear running down his cheek and shakes his head, “Don’t you do that, now, do-don’t you cry over me,”

“I- I can’t, Arthur,”

“Yes, you-you can, John Marston,” Arthur replies, “Dutch’ll need you, the gang, they’ll need you, you-your family. I don’t want no tears for me,”

“I-I’ll try, I promise,” John says and Arthur smiles weakly, sighing a broken breath as his body relaxes, pain seemingly starting to dissipate.

“I know you will, you-you’re a _good_ kid,” he whispers, forcing another sharp breath in and coughing when his lungs rejected it, he wheezes blinking as he tries to relax again.

“It’s okay, Arthur,” Hosea assures, voice close to his ear as Arthur’s vision darkens, “you can rest, son, you can go to sleep now,” he says and Arthur find consolation in his words, body finally loosening as he takes in a final breath, “that’s it, son, rest easy,” he says and Arthur can feel a hand on his cheek, “we’ll miss you, Arthur, we will,”

Arthur doesn’t think he can reply, body feeling numb and detached as he wheezes out one last time, head floating as he finally lets himself sink under the blanket of darkness.

Arthur Morgan is dead.

 

 

Riding back to camp is miserable, they’d put Arthur’s body back on his horse, Buck snorting angrily as John leads him and ties him to the end of Old Boy’s saddle. They don’t speak, riding in silence, often interrupted by a sniffle or a quiet sob. John tries to hold it in, really does, but he _can’t._ Every time Buck huff behind him he’s reminded that his rider is no longer there to snide at them.

Hosea wipes at his eyes often doesn’t make a sound, though. They don't stop either, neither of them having a mind to sleep and traveling straight to their camp. John doesn’t even know how Dutch’ll react, know Dutch prized Arthur like the first son he is, hold him close and rivals- _rivaled_ -Hosea in being his most trusted. Now gone. No longer will John hear Arthur trade sarcastic remarks with Javier, or half-heartedly insult Sean over his drinking habits.

No one will make comments about wolves at him, no one will tell him he’s a kid, no one will tell him he’s a bad shot, _no one, no one, no one._ Arthur’s absence will leave a hole, John doesn’t even know how he’ll manage to fill it, a place for a brother now lost, some type of hurt he can’t shake.

They reach camp at sunrise, early and quiet, John doesn’t know if he’s grateful or not for it. Hosea ties Buck beside the other horses, giving him an apple and a carrot, pointedly not looking at Arthur’s slumped body, bloody and dead in Buck’s saddle.

They move automatically, no emotion surfacing as John slides Arthur’s cold arm over his shoulder, Hosea taking the others and they make their way into camp. Neither know what to say, how to break the news. The deaths shared between them often had been known by more than two people, someone shot in a fight, someone killed by a rival, someone hanged by the law. Never had it been so private, so unexpected.

“Dutch,” Hosea calls, voice uneven as they adjust Arthur’s body, “Dutch, Dutch please wake up,” Hosea calls again, now standing in front of Dutch’s tent. The flaps open, Dutch revealing himself as he tiredly spots Hosea, tiredness turning into worry as he spots Arthur between them.

“What happened?” Dutch asks and Hosea takes in a sharp breath.

“He’s dead-he… he’s dead, Dutch, I-we...” Hosea tries to explain, getting chokes up as Dutch’s expression slowly fades into an emotionless one. The camp had mostly woken, Grimshaw is hurrying over, looking sick with worry as John tries his best to hold back tears. It’s what Arthur wanted, it’s what he’ll do.

They lower Arthur to the ground, those awake staring disbelievingly at him. John would shoo them off, feeling uncomfortable with how they’re just _staring_ like he’s not dead under them like they hadn’t just lost their second in command.

Dutch is uncharacteristically quiet, looking at Arthur with some type of tortured expression as Hosea stares sadly. No one says anything, Abigail had woken up, latched onto John’s arm and buried her face in his shoulder. Quiet tears, John realizes, shock, that’s what they’re going through. No one expects Arthur to die, he’s- _was_ \- their strong man, he’s the one up to save them, the one to break an argument, to calm the camp when Hosea can’t. A peacemaker, of sorts, now gone.

“We need to bury him,” Charles breaks the silence, John nods.

“He wanted to be faced west, should-should be somewhere nice, quiet, undisturbed,” John informs and Charles nods, expression closed off. John knows Arthur and Charles had gotten closer in the past few months, shared an interest in nature, often hunted together. He can tell that Charles isn’t letting his grief stop him from giving Arthur what he deserves, seems like the rest are pretty confused, John, Dutch, and Hosea included. He’s thankful for his presence, “I’ll go with you, want to help,”

“I understand,” Charles nods, looking back at Arthur’s pale face, “I’ll carry him,”

 

 

They end up in Grizzlies East, a place Charles said Arthur liked to visit. John can see why, wildlife surrounds them, plants and trees rich in color and a light breeze filled with fresh air. It settles warmly in John’s heart, like some part of him is connecting to the place. He and Charles share stories, happy ones, stupid ones, about Arthur.

“He’d told me once that the lake near our old camp had a monster in it,” John says, smiling softly at the memory, “I’d been, what, twelve, thirteen? Was still new, followed him like a lost puppy. Anyway, he’d make a point telling me he’d swim in the lake if I ever made him angry. I was a kid, still hadn’t been told monsters weren’t real, and so when he’d go to clean up in it, it’d tell him how the monster would eat him. You know what he told me?” John asks rhetorically, “he told me the monster only eats little annoying kids, told me he ain’t annoying nor a kid and so him and the monster are actually friends,” Sounds stupid now that John thinks about it, but so many things do nowadays, at least it makes his grief easier to process, “made me scared of cleaning up, didn’t take a shower till Grimshaw forced me to,” he chuckles, Charles smiling softly on his side.

“He told me once that you stopped sharing a tent since you had a habit of wetting yourself,” Charles says nonchalantly and John can feel his cheeks heat in embarrassment.

“I-I was just a kid,”

“You were eleven,”

“A _kid,_ ” John insists and Charles chuckles, “anyway, the bastards probably wanted to snore without getting punched in the face in the middle of the night,”

“You did that?”

“Have you _heard_ how loud he is?” John asks defensively and Charles laughs quietly.

 

 

“I think this is a good spot,” Charles says, stopping his horse as he looks at John, “good enough?”

The spot is a clearing, next to O’Creagh’s run, wildflowers are littering the area, weeds short and pretty. John nods, it’s a nice spot, beautiful, quiet, filled with wildlife.

They dig the grave, deep enough that no animal would sniff out the body, John making obsessively sure it’s facing the right direction. They take Arthur’s satchel, John staring at the hat haphazardly stuffed inside it, tucked under it a gold bar and what looks like a lot of sell-able goods. John cracks a smile, taking Arthur hat and examine it closely. Arthur had told him about its story. The last remaining traces of Lyle Morgan, the man Arthur seemed to hate yet always kept some part of him around. His picture beside his bed and his hat wherever he is. Once Charles closes the grave, smoothing it neatly and placing some flowers on top of it. They don’t want to leave it unmarked and so they set a search for anything they can mark it with, something worthy enough, not just a bunch of sticks.

Charles strays far enough to find an old man called Hamish, gives him a few boards they could engrave Arthur’s name on. They end up carving Arthur’s name, a small tribute underneath, a bible verse John remembers Hosea teaching him how to read.

They sit after they’d finished, cross-legged, beside each other in silence.

_Arthur Morgan_

_Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness_

“Think we should head back?” Charles asks, “We could stay a while if you want,”

“Nah,” John replies, he’ll be visiting soon, but now, he wants to be beside the others while they mourn, “We should head back before it’s too dark,” John says, pushing himself onto his feet, he admires the grave for a moment, eyes lingering on the bright colored flowers on top, “one second,” he says, opening Arthur’s satchel again and taking out the worn out hat. He wants to keep it, a reminder that Arthur will be with him. But he thinks perhaps Arthur deserves it more, it’s rightfully his and so, with a final brush against the edge of the hat, John tucks it securely on the grave. His hand lingers for a moment before he sighs, “Rest easy, brother,” he whispers, stepping back and following Charles to where they’d left the horses.


End file.
